Unpublished.

I could write a book about what each tear means. 

I could. But I won’t.
I don’t trust you enough to understand why I feel the way that I do.
I don’t trust at all.

I’ve laid in plenty of beds next to empty bodies,
and have seen hundreds of people live my dreams.
I’ve watched the hands on the clock called life stand still as my surroundings passed me by.

My pain is scattered between old news and current events.
It’s written in these lines,
painted on the walls in the buildings I used to reside,
and held in the hearts of men that said they loved me,
but never quite knew how.

Sometimes I lay in bed, think about all
that I’ve been through and cry.
I think about what’s to come and I cry some more.
I am far from sending a bullet through my skull,
but my sadness runs so deep.
I am far from the woman that the public believes me to be.
Right now I am small.

I could write a book about it.
I could. But I won’t.
I could write a book about it.
But there’s nothing left to say.

Poet: Stefanie Parrott 

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